


Indivisible

by potionpen



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America is trying (so. very. trying.), American Politics, But also, Dark, Dark Crack, Denial is a river, Food, Gen, Humor, Mental Instability, Politics, This Universe - Dark, alfred is fine, arthur is also fine (brexit? what brexit?), because everything is FINE, nakedly political (not like that- probably- look it's a very special relationship ok), not dark humor; just:, posting out of fandom, setting what setting, slow creep, which will no way swamp the world in a raging tsunami
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 12:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17264009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potionpen/pseuds/potionpen
Summary: A house divided against itself and held together with duct tape may be able to stand, but raises questions about for how long, and um, is the chimney taped up, too?  Because the windows are maybe straining a little and that might just be a grease fire in the kitchen; did you know flour is combustible?  And oh, hey, was that insulated duct tape?  Because the whole world knows winter is coming, and at this point an iced-zombie invasion would really just be kinda extra.J/K!  ROFLMAO, you should see your face. 😂 Relax, will ya?  A hero can handle ANYTHING!(America.  2018.  Someone will try to make sure you forget.)





	1. let Facts be submitted

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : profitless fanwork
> 
>  **Warnings** : Language. Politics. Mental health issues other than depression. Not a period piece. More or less no women.
> 
>  **Notes** : The author is neither a polisci nor a history major. And does not necessarily (or in most cases) agree with characters' opinions. Or priorities. Please direct any outrage to the appropriate character. n,n;; 
> 
> Crack to the front, plot to the back, and courage and best wishes for the new year. Please be kind.

“You know,” England tries at one point, “this going around calling yourself—”

“I am a hero!” America declares.  “I mean, I don’t want to horn in on anybody’s business—I have my own problems, you know, pal—but let’s face it, all y’all are _constantly_ getting yourself into deep shit you apparently can’t get out of without my boys lending a hand.”

“A hand no one asked for,” someone mutters.  Or, to be more accurate, about ten people mutter at the same time.  Maybe fifty.

“Bullshit,” scoffs Alfred.

He’s clearly about to talk about how hard he did try to stay out of things on a couple of notable occasions, again, and how loud the begging was, but England interrupts, “That’s not the point.  That sort of arrogance gets right up people’s noses, and—”

“ _Dude,_ ” Alfred laughs from the center of a crowd of theoretically-polite coughing.  “Your name is _Arthur._ ”

“Because he’s always with me and I miss him!” England glares.

“Whatever you want to tell yourself,” Alfred says, patting him on the top of the head just to be a brat.  “Beam me up, Kirkland!”

“I hate that guy,” sighs Scotland, glaring at Alfred from across the room.

American snaps and points at him in delight and crows, “Mel Brooks!”

“ _I_ don’t forget who made me who I am,” England growls. Definitely because he has a very important point to make, and not at all because someone stopped paying attention to him.

Alfred makes a _blah blah blah_ hand puppet at him.  “Maybe you should try it.  Considering you were ‘made who you are’ basically because of a temper tantrum.”

“Nonsense.  Henry Tudor may have been an ass, but…”

Arthur becomes conscious that several nations are watching him with bland interest and slightly raised eyebrows _and one of them is Italy._  Which, these days, is unusual enough to be jarring.  Not that everyone wants him to fail like a fool, just that Feliciano is taking part.  It occurs to him that:

  1. bringing up the Holy Roman Empire might be tactless  
  2. Alfred is not broadly inclined to give hereditary rulers credit just for allowing stable environments in which their subjects can achieve  
      a. (and, in any case, is not more than nominally impressed by philosophers, earthbound navies, or enchanting music played at reasonable volumes, and doesn’t really seem to know Wales is more than an honorific)  
  3. ‘he was popular’ doesn’t really speak to the question, and  
  4. ‘he was glorious’ is not an assertion with which anyone who matters will be sympathetic.  

Worse, that last one might make Alfred think that Arthur is impressed by people who are glorious, and Alfred is enough of a headache already.

“No, go on,” says Alfred, propping his chin on his hands with a grin.  “I’m, like, super-curious how you plan to rescue that sentence.”

“As am I,” says Francis, even smugger than Alfred.

“But,” England finishes triumphantly, “he strengthened my Parliament and gave me my Bess.”

Without opening his eyes, Spain murmurs, “I loathe you sometimes.”

Scotland pats Spain on the shoulder and commiserates, “I loathe him all the time.”

Ireland is too busy, off in a corner showing off something worryingly shiny to a sympathetic but distracted India, to comment.


	2. all experience hath shewn

“It’s a superhero cape!”  Alfred declares, posing with a big, shiny grin.  “Or maybe a cloak, like in Harry Potter.”

Arthur, who really has more important things to worry about but is doing his best to Carry On, grits his teeth. “If you believe in wizards, why do you never believe me when I tell you _there is a pogrebin sitting on your shoe?_ ”

“I don’t _believe_  in magic,” scoffs Alfred.  “I just can’t help feeling for some poor, ignorant little schmuck who gets yanked into British politics with a promise that nothing will be miserable and boring anymore and finds out that the world is fucking dark and all bodies built on fair-minded principles and given, like, a _scrap_ of oversight will inevitably descend into vicious corruption the second someone who’s selfish or scared or crap at handling conflicts of interests manages to weasel their way into power.  Can we focus more on the part where I said it’s a superhero cape? WHOOSH!”

“ _Amerique,_ ” Francis sighs as Arthur snaps his hanging jaw shut and storms away, muttering nastily about what he should have done with a flintlock to mouthy little brats when he had the chance. “Always you are in such poor taste.  But with such miraculous lungs.”

“Eh,” Alfred waves a dismissive hand, stopping his imitation of a zooming jet plane in favor of cleaning his glasses with an appearance of massive unconcern.  “You never like my clothes, Frankie. Whatever,” he grins. Turning his face to the sky, he spreads his arms high to display the length of bright cloth stapled with actual office staples to his collar and wrists (it’s a lifehack), and blissfully shouts, “THESE COLORS DON’T RUN!”

“WE KNOW!” howls back literally everyone.

“Running is good exercise,” Italy says in his vaguely anxious, eager-to-please voice.  “Maybe they should try it!”

There’s a long silence while everyone looks at that innocent face and tries to work out how innocent it really is.

Finally, Alfred says, “Surfing’s _way_  more fun.  And then we can have seafood!”

“Shrimp fra diabolo!” Italy bounces up in excitement.

“Or mahi-mahi burgers!”

“In a panini!”

“With mango!”

“Your _petit-ami_ gets stranger every day,” Francis tells Arthur later.


	3. the pursuit of Happiness

Nobody ever thought they’d miss the constant smell of hamburgers (especially Germany, who tended to take it personally), but now Alfred has taken over to wandering over to other nations’ houses, whether he’s friends with them or not, and poking around hopefully in their cupboards.  

It wouldn’t be so bad if he had any manners about it.  Instead it’s like that time he remembered that hot sauce exists all over again, when he was unable to shut up about how awesome it was but also unable to eat, like, a _single thing_  at Mexico and Thailand’s house without running around howling in agony, with steam pouring out of his ears.  

At least nobody who’s still alive particularly cares about the loud love-hate relationship with fancy lettuces and quinoa.  Possibly Wang Yao might feel, behind his smooth, polite face, that if someone’s going to use the term ‘ancient grains’ they should do so with more respect.  Honda-san is slightly more assertive in his opinion that not only is Wang Yao correct about this, but rice should certainly qualify, and if Alfred fails to acknowledge its superiority it’s because Alfred has not had the patience to learn to properly cook it.

No one is sure how they feel about avocados at this point.  They are, as everyone else already knew, objectively wonderful, but that’s the kind of influence Alfred’s enthusiasm has.

Weirdly, the smell of hamburgers persists.  Even more weirdly, Alfred, when confronted about it, doesn’t shout about how awesome they are, but looks stressed and bloated and insists that they’re a godsend when there isn’t anything else around (no one thinks he’s using the term ‘food desert’ properly but he blows off all corrections with the dashing grin he only uses when someone’s legitimately gotten under his skin), and that they can be really fucking good if they’re done right.  

He’s currently excited about making them without oil.  No one can quite wrap their head around this. Honda-san asked if that wouldn’t be like making sushi without vinegar, but it just ended up with Alfred asking wtf vinegar had to do with it and begging, again, for a lesson in making tamagoyaki while Honda-san tried, again, to explain that sushi and sashimi are not the same dish.

Despite how obnoxious America’s being, and despite the exciting new game of Did Ivan start Trying to Cozy Up To Him Before Or After He Said Vodka Is THE Secret Weapon For Both Burgers And Eggs, that’s not alarmingly unusual for his food phases.

Besides, the fallout from his enthusiastic explanation of water burgers is fun for almost everyone.  Even if Ludwig has lately decided to extend his sense of grim responsibility outside his own borders in a way that makes him a surprisingly good neighbor rather than an existential threat, a lot of nations still take a lot of quiet satisfaction in watching Germany turn green.

“He doesn’t get this loutish palate-pilfering from _me,_ ” Arthur comforts himself, shaking his head in dismay.

It isn’t his policy to admit that anyone else ever had any influence over his former colonies (for one thing, arguing with Wang Yao is brain-chewingly unsatisfactory and tends to end up with his house mysteriously decorated with paper poppies, some of which are quite small and hidden in his tea), so he doesn’t elaborate, but really.  Such bad influences. At least Alfred doesn’t show the French taint as much as poor Matthew.

Nobody hears India cough, “ _Curry powder,”_ behind his cup of tea, or notices Wang Yao pause in his exercises to take a pointed sip of his own.  Neither was particularly trying to be subtle.  It's just that Francis has put dramatic fingertips to his chest and mourned, “If only England had such admirable respect for food as it should be eaten,” and England has started trying to obliterate his long Norman nose again.


	4. a decent respect

“Why he staring at me?” Korea whispers to Mexico nervously.

“It’s because he’s too ashamed to look at me.  Or maybe he’s too scared. Hard to say.” He laughs as if he was kidding, but Korea doesn’t think that’s true.

“Hey, South,” America waves, approaching them at a deceptively casual amble.

Korea asks if America has heard Korea’s new album, because when America walks up looking serious, there’s a better than average chance that Korea is about to have to talk to someone who lives a little closer to home than Alfred does.  Usefully, Alfred, for better and worse, has become remarkably distractible recently.

“What?  Nah, I was just wondering what you were doing.”

Korea blinks.  “I was just walking?  And talking to Mex—”

“With the book over your face,” Alfred explains, shading his eyes (incompletely) in demonstration.  “Are you okay? Got a headache? Has that bastard been—”

“No, no, it’s nothing!” Korea assures him.  The less America talks to ‘that bastard,’ the better Korea will sleep.  “I don’t have a parasol with me, that’s all.”

America gets that lip-twitch that says he thinks Korea is old-fashioned and quaint, but generously holds out a pair of dark glasses, offering, “I have some spare shades if you want?  Aviator style!”

“It’s for my face, not my eyes,” Korea explains.  “To prevent tanning.” The industrial revolution may have changed the world so that when someone’s skin is as pale as it can be they probably have a low-status job, instead of meaning they aren’t a dirt grubber who must be baked all day, but Korea still doesn’t feel that way.  “Because of cancer.”

America looks troubled.  Slowly, Alfred says, “My boss might like it if I tried that.”

“I can send you a parasol, if you’d like.  And, using infrared, I have salons that—”

“Nah.”  Alfred switches out his regular glasses for the aviator shades and bares very white teeth in a grin that looks, to Korea, defiant.  “I’m a free country. And I like a good tan.”

“I hear your police don’t,” Mexico puts in with a superior smile.

“MY COPS ARE GOOD GUYS,” America says.  Loudly. With hunched shoulders. “And women!  Mostly. I’m working on it! Their work is dangerous!  They’ve got to protect themselves! They’ve got programs! And they’re trying body-cams!  It’s not a big deal! I mean, statistically it’s not a huge problem! Probably, I mean, it’s not like anybody can find the fucking data, because _nobody apparently kept records, what is WRONG with people,_ but MY COPS ARE GOOD GUYS, their work is dangerous and they’ve got to protect them—they’re supposed to protect—I mean...”

“Oh, dear,” says Mexico, smile growing wider and more vicious.  “It seems I’ve upset you. How terrible. Is it all this sun? Maybe we should find you some shade, perhaps a nice wall, or maybe you’d like me to _pick you some—”_

“I DON’T NEED A FUCKING WALL!”

“That’s good to hear,” Mexico says smugly.  “Good and realistic.”

“...I’m _fine,_ ” America snarls, and storms off.

“Baby,” Mexico remarks, and turns to Korea.  “I love how he thinks that’s the point.”

“It must be nice for you,” Korea answers with chilly eyes from two directions, “not to predict your lifespan from scratch every day on the basis of how stable a baby is.”


	5. But when a long train

“It’s very interesting.” Arthur tilts his head with interest at the brightly painted pole at which Alfred, crosslegged on the ground with his hands planted behind him, has been gazing darkly up.  “It would be right at home in one of my museums. Is that meant to be an owl?” he asks, pointing at one of the sections in the middle.

“I don’t really know,” Alfred admits, still gazing up at the pole  “It was one of my moms, and I don’t know. I just keep trying to remember… did I kill her, or did you?”

England shrugs.  “Our parents rarely do survive us.”

“You don’t care?” Alfred demands, turning around to stare, outraged.

“You wouldn’t have got on with the Pictii, lad,” Alfred advises dryly.  

Alfred sighs.  “How many times do I have to tell you pixies aren’t real?”

“They aren’t anymore,” Arthur agrees smugly, and then realizes he’d better clarify before the actual pixie currently trying to make friends with the ghost gets upset.  “All right, with _Pictavia,_ then.  And, don’t you know, sometimes it’s not a death so much as a change.  I remember every moment of being Icini, don’t I just, but I’m not her anymore.  Nor is being part of Great Britain the same as being Britain was. I remember that, too.  You can’t imagine how many of Germany’s ancestors I used to be. I’m not them, and I didn’t kill them—they became someone who became me.”

“I’m pretty sure we killed you,” Alfred says to the funereal pole, quietly.  “Feel kinda bad about it now. Were you all really that scary?”

 _Yes, a bit,_ Arthur doesn’t say, _but mostly they were in our way._  

Arthur also doesn’t tell him about the faint shimmer of a ghost looking coldly down at them from the top of the pole and incredulously mouthing _Kinda bad?!_  It would be terrible of him to mention that to Alfred.  Just rude, and inconsiderate. After all, when America shrieks and runs away, people’s eardrums pop.

It doesn’t occur to Arthur, who has looted and swallowed up even the invaders that first defeated him, that maybe America has good reason to be afraid of ghosts.

India considers that Arthur has a very selective memory.

“...Hey!” Alfred exclaims after a long moment of glum silence, suddenly scrambling up and turning to Arthur, eyes aghast and hugely blue behind his glasses.  “You never wanted to be my brother—you wanted to me to _be part of you!”_

England looks confused.  “Well, obviously,” he agrees.

“I _knew it,_ ” Alfred snarls, vibrating with such fury he’s too choked to say anything else.

“Way of the world, my lad,” Arthur tells him, smiling with a touch of condescension.  “Didn’t you used to call yourself a melting pot?”

“That’s different!  My people came on purpose to be part of me!”

“Mmm.  That’s not entirely true, now, is it?”

Alfred twitches and scowls, and informs him, “Anyway, I’m more into salads now.”

“And all those raw vegetables will kill you one day, I shouldn’t wonder.  Salmonella in your lettuce, of all things! Don’t take on so, there’s no need to get in a pet about it.  I understand, believe you me. I felt just the same about the Beakers, and Saxony, and Rome.”

He can’t tell whether Alfred is genuinely confused or being pointed.  “Uhh… you felt the same as which of us?”

Since the answer is, obviously, _both,_ Arthur shrugs.  “It came all right in the end--they’re part of me, as I’m part of you.”  He nods at the pole. “She is, too. Not as big a part as I am, of course, but there you are.”

“You are unbelievable,” Alfred snaps. He spins on his heel and stomps off to Canada’s house, suddenly in the mood for a nice, chill game of hockey, hopefully with a mug of _cold_ beer, because fuck you, England, and maybe some flying teeth.

“He’ll understand someday,” Arthur shrugs.  

He’s not really talking to the ghost, but the ghost is most certainly talking to him when she says, “I never will.”

“He never will,” says Puerto Rico, softly.  “If he did, I’d be part of him, or he’d leave me alone.”

Arthur blinks—had Puerto Rico been there a moment ago?  Wasn’t being pathologically inconspicuous Canada’s game?—and says, “Can’t help you there, but let’s find you a towel and a hot drink.”

“I suppose,” says Puerto Rico, thin, dripping, and coldly bitter, “I must take what I can get.”


	6. which constrains them to alter

“What,” Alfred demands, staring down, “am I _wearing._ ”

“A very nearly decent suit over a ratty band shirt and filthy trainers,” England says, with the complicated eyebrow alignment of a man who would once, before falling in love with punk rock, have epically disapproved.  “You look like Tony Stark. Apart from the hat.”

Which should be awesome, because Iron Man is almost awesome enough to give MIT an iota of street cred, but, “I look like an asshole.”

“There’s no need to repeat everything I say,” smirks England, and America gives him the finger.

Which was the most normal conversation Alfred feels like he’s had in, what, months?  It’s hard for him to tell. Time feels wrong, like every hour is clicking through briskly on the second hand but, at the same time, taking years.  

He’d like to think that not being able to find his bomber jacket is the reason everyone seems to be avoiding him.  He feels like he knows who he is in that jacket. His glasses are never all smudgy when his jacket's on unless he’s been guts-deep in some engine.  He hasn’t been doing much tinkering lately. The suit didn’t come with a hat, and he’s pretty sure the Springsteen shirt didn’t, either.

Alfred, tbh, isn’t totally sure where he got the hat.

He doesn’t even _like_ hats.  Except at games, or when it’s freezing.  Hats are so… ugh, even when they aren’t top hats or bowlers he kind of feels like they are?  This one is especially annoying: the red is distracting over his eyes (didn’t he used to hate red?  That can’t be right. How could he ever have hated red when it’s in his flag?) and he can’t remember what team it’s for or even if it’s a baseball team.  

The thing is, even if he feels a little gross about it, it’s comfortable.  Or maybe he means comforting?  It’s like changing into yesterday’s sweats after a long day in a suit. It makes him feel like he did when he didn’t mind being a colony: under someone’s wing, and not alone.  He’s not sure about it; he kinda knows it’s not a good look; but who cares what anyone else thinks? In a way, he really feels like it’s _him._

It’s just…

Alfred’s all about being better than you were—proud, yes, complacent, _never—_ but he’s a little mixed up these days about what ‘better’ would mean.


	7. excited domestic insurrections

Alfred puts a hand to his face and stares.  “Dude, did you just slap me.”

“And it is only what you deserve,” Francis sniffs, tossing his head so his curls bounce.  “You would lecture _me_ about democracy?  Incredible.”

Greece opens one unimpressed eye.

Alfred stares harder (at Francis, like Greece wasn’t even there).  “Oh, _shit_ , man, did I—I did.  Crap. Wow, that was… weird.  Sorry, I don’t know what I was—You know what, let me make it up to you.  You’re gonna love Brooklyn these days, it’s wild. You can tell them all how they’re doing cheese wrong, and if you bring some bread we can sneak it up and eat it in Liberty’s crown.”

“Very well,” scolds Francis haughtily, mollified, “but I will bring the wine, and not you.”

“Oh!” Alfred enthuses.  “Or, instead of that long-ass compensation bread—yeah, this would go great with wine! I know this little cupcake place—”

France stalks off, leaving a red outline on Alfred’s other cheek.

“You were doing okay up till you started beaking the baguettes,” Matthew sighs, patting him on the back.

“Whatever!” Alfred shakes it off with a determined grin, and slings an arm around his shoulders.  “Let’s you and me go up instead! We’ll hit Coney Island, grab some beer and hotdogs… you and me against the world, amiright?”

Matthew smiles, a little pained, and goes so far as to agree, “I don’t know about that, but you and me, for sure.”

“Excuse me,” an American human addresses him.  “Sorry, I couldn’t help but hear your accent, it’s so _cute!_  Are you from Canada?”

“You’re going to make fun of me,” Matthew sighs, drooping.

“Oh, no, not at all!” the human assures him, eyes wide,  patting him, rather than on the shoulder, a little too close to the chest for Matthew's comfort.  “Everyone knows you guys are better than us in every conceivable way.”

“Words cannot express how much I hate you right now,” Alfred tells Matthew conversationally when she’s left, leaving her phone number tucked into his shirt even though he’d politely explained three times that he’s not looking for a date.  

“Are we still going up your statue?” Matthew asks hopefully.  “It’s nice that people are finally seeing me, but it makes me itchy.”

Alfred thaws a little and looks sympathetic, and starts to say something reassuring, and then a moment later he slaps both hands over his mouth and looks horrified.  “I didn’t mean it!” he shouts to the rapidly repeating back. “I don’t know why I— _shit,_ ” he concludes.

Pulling the brim of his cap down over his eyes as though it’ll make him less conspicuous, goes off with miserably hunched shoulders to see if he’s pissed Arthur off too much lately to go get pissed together.  “The hell is wrong with me,” he snarls under his breath, not even seeing the old lady whose shopping bags he would once have made a point of carrying home for her. “Jealous of fucking _Canada._ ”

“Ah, do you know my adorable little Canada?” Francis asks, popping up brightly as though nothing had ever happened.  He’s wearing a backpack with long golden loaves sticking out the top, like a quiver of arrows. One of them looks suspiciously wooden.  “He is so wonderfully—”

America punches the top off a fire hydrant.

“You are upset!” Francis declares, not even trying to hide his smug glee.  “Come, I am hearing such things about the cheese markets in your provincial town of, what is it called, Brook’s Land—”

“Dude,” says Alfred wearily, a hand tight over his eyes, under his glasses.  “You really think I need someone to gaslight me right now? You think someone _actively trying to drive me crazy_ is in any way helpful?”

“...Perhaps not,” Francis concedes more softly, and takes his arm.  “It is not so bad, my friend. It is a thing we go through. How many have not?  You have come through it already, before.”

“Yeah, but at least everyone was totally clear on what the sides were.”

“Were they?” Francis asks philosophically, waving a lackadaisical finger for no good reason Alfred can see.  “When it was my time, those in the middle had to pick a side without being sure what was right. It comes always this way, is it not so?  The moderates, and the peaceful who wish no one any ill, and those who think both sides are being terrible or who think neither side is entirely wrong in exactly every matter.  It is never so simple except at the raw ends, do you not think this is so? We come out better in the end: when we are uneasy within ourselves, these arguments must be had. And you—you have laws already to bar the way to your guillotines!  Of course, I have destroyed mine already… all of Europe has... but you will get there in the end!  Take heart, my young friend!”

“Yeah, those laws are working _great,_ ” America grits.  “Francis, I just took the head off a fucking fire hydrant and _I can’t get rid of my nukes._ ”

“We will go up our statue, little brother.” Francis’s best blithe manner is most often used to make Arthur turn amusing colors.  He doesn’t use them in quite that way as he drops an arm around America’s broader shoulders and firmly propels them forward.  “I have the wine. You will see all of yourself, and the air will be clearer, and there will be no one to punch but me, who has survived England’s tantrums these very many years.”

“Years,” Alfred echoes hollowly.  “Two more years.”

“Perhaps it will be so,” Francis agrees noncommittally.  “Que sera, sera.”

“That wasn’t French,” Alfred points out.

“But it was a delightful movie,” Francis argues, and over the course of the rest of their chat notices that Alfred, even if he claims not to be ‘super-interested’ in the classics, seems calmer and more together when the conversation is circling stars like Fred Rogers and Doris Day.

Later, in some bewilderment, swimming back to shore with duckweed and half a set of snipped six-pack rings caught in his beautiful hair, clinging to his floating wooden loaf because unnaturally strong kicking pairs unfortunately with great heights and large bodies of water, he reflects that bringing up the equally excruciatingly wholesome Cosby show was evidently, for some mysterious reason, a mistake.


	8. and sent hither swarms

“How did you piss India off this time?” England asks, plopping down beside Alfred on the sofa.  “Got him mixed up with Pakistan again?”

“I think he’s mostly mad at you because Rudyard Kipling happened?” Alfred says in a vague, asking-a-question sort of tone.  “Or, you know, that whole thing he was there for probably, more than him. Although, ha, given the bitchfest that goes 3D special effect surround sound BOOM outta Cali every time Hollywood trips over the line between diversifying and exploiting, maybe actually him.”

“Good times,” England sighs, eyes wistful and mouth rueful, and rubs at his throat in not particularly fond memory.  “Very exciting. My curry is better, of course. And much more efficient.”

“...Sure thing, Wart.”

Arthur glares.  “We could try ‘3D special effect surround sound boom’ _into_ Hollywood any time you like.  Say the word. My pleasure.”

“Disney Animated’s in Burbank, loser.”

“How cunning of you to clear that up.  Take your fingers off your forehead, you look an utter fool.”

“You always say I look dumb.  To which I say: pot, kettle, eyebrows."

"To which I say: a hundred euros says you couldn't find Burbank on a map, let alone Pakistan."

"ANNN-yway, like I said, I think India’s mostly mad at you.  He said something about ‘how many times is it completely necessary to rub it in.’  —Aw, crap, did I just do an Apu accent? I’m trying to stop doing that, I swear, it’s just, you know, all trippingly on the tongue and shit… Tell you what, if you don’t tell him I did that, I won’t tell him what you just said about his curry.”

Arthur frowns at the cartoon for a moment, just in case immature chav behavior might magically evaporate if ignored long enough, and then brightens.  “Oh, The Jungle Book! Don’t worry, Hollywood will get it right someday, I’m sure. Try ten or twenty more times, I have every faith in you. Can you go back to the beginning?  This one has George Sanders. He played King Richard once, you know. Why do you always use my people for your villains?”

“Yeah, _huh_ , that’s completely inexplicable, the way your voice is the universal signal of pure evil, can't imagine how that happened, it’s almost as if you’d, like, told me to rely on you when I was a baby and then left me with a parting gift of smallpox to starve or get eaten by bears while you swanned off to warmer colonies with more spices—who didn’t even want you there, just in case you were confused about that—but still thought you had the right to tell me what to do or something.   _So_ weird.”

Arthur rolls his eyes.  ‘Baby’ Alfred’s favorite game had been the buffalo toss.  Which had been bloody terrifying for everyone in a two-mile radius, as no one had yet taught the little monster to aim.  He ought to ask Greece whether Herakles had been this much of a whinger. “Just rewind the bloody movie, Princess. Lie down on the couch if you like, I don’t mind, but don’t expect me to sit behind you and ask Socratic questions in a soothing tone whilst you explore your Mummy issues.”

“Touch- _y_.  I’m not really watching it,” Alfred explains, rewinding only a minute or two.  “I just... look, watch this bit.”

“Classic,” England agrees happily.  Onscreen, a boa constrictor is getting remarkably close to eating a cranky panther, using only the twin superpowers of arrogance and good manners.

“I guess?” Alfred shrugs.  “I’m trying to decide whether the snake reminds me more of Winnie The Pooh or Ivan.  Can’t really put my finger on why, but...”

England decides not to agree out loud that Alfred has a very good point; the room might be bugged.  “I don’t think that’s what Ivan means when he talks about the Russian Bear. Suppose you rewind this one, and afterwards we can watch Riki Tiki Tavi.”

After all, the hypnotic snake in _that_ one was neither cute nor remotely funny.  It was often less than useful to tell Alfred obvious things outright when he didn’t want to hear them, but creeping him out generally worked like a charm.

“Cool,” Alfred agrees, “but, uh, how about I make the popcorn this time, buddy?”

“None of that parmesan you’re obsessed with,” Arthur agrees, in order to win something here. “It smells of feet.”

“Sure thing, Stilton,” Alfred laughs, but even though Arthur doesn’t so much point him in the direction of the kitchen as kick him companionably in the arse, he comes back with popcorn sprinkled with _curry powder._ Arthur magnanimously takes back everything unkind he’d ever said in the last three months.  

Or, at least, the last three hours.  As curry blends go, America’s runs a bit feeble.

If Arthur is overly (not to say pointedly) enthusiastic about cheering on the mongoose’s lack of susceptibility to hypnosis… he could probably make a good argument (should polite comments be made later about things Ivan ought not to know about) that it was due to personal growth and humility because Nag and Nagaina represented the British Empire.  

An argument about literary criticism with Russia might go on forever, but needs must.  Just because Arthur has learned to keep calm and carry on doesn’t mean he has the attention to spare, just at the moment, for anything less saf—more tox—more _diverting_.

Even if he’s quite sure he knows who tripped him into this position. Survival hinges on knowing when it’s time to be practical.


	9. ought to be totally dissolved

“I heard your bosses are reshuffling!” Matthew smiles, patting Alfred on the back.  “I don’t know if you want to hear this, but a lot of people are relieved.”

“It’s fucking meaningless,” Alfred says dully.  “Same old stick-in-the-mud moneybags and fuckin’ base-munching cowards having catfights for show.  What does it matter if the faces change or just botox it up and dye their hair younger?  And even when they _try_ to talk it’s worse than Arthur and Francis.  I can’t even fucking _follow_ it anymore.  Washington used to be a swamp, but now it’s fucking quicksand.  Emphasis on quick. I’m fucking exhausted. You think maybe 2000 really was the end of the world?  The start of it, I mean? A lot of my guys think so. That was about when I started wondering if this was what schizophrenia felt like—”

“Probably,” Matthew agrees, because that was about when he’d started wondering if Alfred was what schizophrenia looked like.  Alfred had been scarier back then.

In some ways.  There hadn’t been so many mood swings.

“Glad to see you’re getting over that whole overly polite thing,” Alfred notes sourly.

“...Sorry?” he offers, but more sympathetically than in apology.

“Yeah, you—”

 _Are,_ he only just stops himself saying. It’s scary as hell, because when he _tries_ to think of reasons to be an asshole to Canada, he can’t come up with any he can, if he’s honest with himself, take seriously.

“—mean that, I can tell,” he finishes, almost smoothly.  “Whatever. I just… It’s been like my corpus callosum was fucked and the two halves of my brain aren’t talking to each other for-fucking- _ever_ , but now it feels like it’s going to _explode_.”

“Your corpus callosum?”

“My whole head.  I don’t know half the shit that’s coming out of my mouth!”

“I can tell.”

“ _This isn’t like last time,_ ” Alfred presses, grabbing his arm and shaking it in case he hadn’t figured out how serious Alfred is about this.

“It’s a bit like Last Time,” Canada points out mildly.  “It’s like Last Time never exactly died and now has come back from beyond the grave and is staring in through your window at two in the morning, until you realize that’s not a window and the footsteps were coming from inside the house.”

“...Just because you’ve got some okay actors doesn’t mean you have to go around impersonating Ivan,” Alfred mentions, giving Matthew the side-eye.

“Oh, well, you know how it is,” says Matthew cheerfully.  “I, too, can see Russia from my—”

“DON’T EVEN!” Alfred yells.  For lack of anything else handy (glasses are a pain to replace, even if he’s been thinking he might need a new prescription), throws the red hat in Matthew's face.

“I think I’ll feed this to my polar bear,” Canada muses, catching the thing as carefully as if it’s soaked in spoiled milk.  It sounds like a joke, but he doesn’t give it back.

“It won’t help,” Alfred deflates, voice going dull.  “Hey--you remember that time during the war when we all got hyped up and slap-happy and thought we saw Rome?”

Canada blinks.  “I didn’t realize anyone noticed I was there.”

“But you remember, right?”

“He seemed to be having a nice afterlife,” Matthew concedes.

“I hope he is,” Alfred says, his mouth tight.  “I remember when my guys liked to compare us. I don’t hear so much about it anymore.  That’s kinda not reassuring.”

“No government works as intended when it becomes too large,” Ivan says, from out of nowhere, _right in his ear._  “Maybe you were not wrong, the last time, to think of secession?”

Alfred, caught between running away shrieking like a startled howler monkey and appreciating Ivan’s placid, hypnotic smile, decides to punch him in the nose.  Instead, somehow, he falls over with the stars swirling in front of his eyes, fast enough to make him sick.

“Because breaking up never did you any harm and you’re glad you did it?” asks Matthew sweetly, and hands Ivan the red hat.  Alfred had been too heavy for him to catch, and now he feels like getting down on the same level to help would be a bad mistake.  “This is yours, isn’t it?”

Ivan graciously takes the hat and turns it over with a puzzled smile.  “Who says this is mine?”

“Everyone.  Literally the entire world knows it’s yours.”  He nudges Alfred urgently with his toe.

“Scram, Mattie,” Alfred hisses, with a touch of the old determination in his eyes, a thin veil over the unease.  “I can’t get up.”

“I can—”

“Move it, lame-o!  No one needs you and your mount-me little ponies.  Ivan will help me out. We’re buds these days.  It’s all good!”

Under the confident white grin, Matthew notices, Alfred’s lantern jaw is locked at its _I am a hero_ angle.  Matthew can’t see his brother’s eyes properly with his glasses at that angle.  He can’t be sure—it’s very subtle—but he thinks Al’s hands are shaking.

“We are very good friends; I am glad you know this now.”  Ivan stoops to put the hat back on America—tenderly, or maybe just delicately.  

He’s still smiling when he straightens to look at Matthew, but the night seems closer and darker.  Matthew doesn’t mind the cold, but somehow the stars all suddenly look like teeth. “Don’t feel overlooked, Canada,” he says pleasantly.  “There is no need to become loud like your dear brother. I have always known you are here.”


End file.
